The Girl in the Sea
by SeaBreeze
Summary: Another year means another reaping for the Hunger Games, and Finnick Odair and the tributes of District Four prepare for the only certainty ahead of them: the tributes' violent deaths.
1. Chapter 1

The Girl in the Sea

By Seabreeze

Chapter 1

A/N: What up, Hunger Games fanfic readers? I wanted to give the how-Annie-and-Finnick-came-to-be thing a try. Probably over done, but I don't really care. I'm re-reading the books to make sure I don't contradict anything, but I'm excited to take some creative license. I really hope you enjoy, so please review

"_Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" I ask._

"_No." A long time passes before he adds, "She crept up on me."_

_Mockingjay, page 174. _

Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns all. Especially the characters and the basic plotline and the above quote.

* * *

The morning of the Reaping, I woke early and crept out of my room, making sure to be especially careful outside of my father's door so as not to wake him. I stole out of our little house in the hills and took the familiar path that twisted through the sparse woods down to the shore. I avoided the docks, not that anyone would be working them, if only because I associated them with rushing, tanned bodies and the smell of fish.

I wanted nothing but the sound of the crashing waves on the sand, and maybe a gull or two.

As soon as those waves came into view, I felt a possessed grin slip across my face and I pulled my shirt off over my head and tossed it onto the sand, breaking into a jog. I kicked my shoes off next, and had to pause long enough to get my pants off before I was sprinting in my underwear straight into the water. It was just cold enough to make me gasp as it hit my body, but that and the roughness with which it battered my skin were more than worth it for the way the salt water seemed to drain my body of all stress and fear for the oncoming events of the day.

I swam for a solid hour before I knew I was pushing it. I had to get back home and get ready, after all. But leaving the sea had the opposite effect of entering it, and as I rang the heavy salt water out of my hair, I felt terror start to freeze back over my heart. I grabbed my clothes and shoes and jogged, barefoot, home.

Father was not especially pleased when I walked into the kitchen, dressed again but with wet hair and the distinct smell of saltwater, but he merely shook his head.

"Wash your hair. Breakfast will be ready when you get out." He said.

Reaping days always made him tense. Like me, I think, the stress just seemed to consume him. I didn't argue him, and when I came back down there were two plates on our table with chunks of bread, the milky gruel we ate for every meal, and slices of fish arranged on them.

Even in District 4, fish was a specialty. Seeing it on my plate only made my stomach flip over – we only ever ate fish on Reaping days.

"You look nice," father said as I sat down. My hair was still wet, though it no longer smelled like I had just swam in the ocean, and I had on my best dress. It still didn't exactly qualify as 'nice', though. You shouldn't look nice when you feel like your heart is making its best bid for escape inside your chest.

"Thank you," I said, my voice softer than I had anticipated. We ate in silence after that.

I wonder if every house across Panem is like this the morning before the Reaping. Certainly not in Districts like 2, but in some, I'm sure it's worse.

Reapings have always had this affect on my family.

It doesn't help at all that my mother was killed on Reaping day three years ago. It was my very first Reaping – the first one I participated in, anyways. Mother and Father were on edge, and though I wasn't particularly worried – the naiveté of a 12 year old – the fact that my name was in the drawing for the first time that year made my parents nearly hum with fear.

In the end, of course, I wasn't chosen. But another 12-year-old was, and I guess the stress of it all just became too much for Mother. When the boy – whose name I didn't know, though I recognized his face – started making his way up to the stage, she just seemed to lose it, screaming that he was just a child and begging for someone to do something. She broke free of my father's arms and started to make her way up to the stage, too – maybe to pull the boy back, maybe to try and argue the injustice of District Four offering up a 12-year-old sacrifice.

We won't ever know, because one of the peacekeepers shot her in the back, and she was dead before she hit the ground.

Dissention never goes over too well here in District 4.

I can't bear to sit around and do nothing, so after breakfast I go for a walk along the beach – after Father makes me promise not to get in again. Even now, though, the smell and the sound of the sea does little to calm me – it's the walking that does me any good at all, because at least it's something. An exertion of some sort. Long before I'm ready, it's time to head back to collect Father, and face what we are dreading.

When we reach the Market Center – where most of the trading is done, and more importantly, where they hold the Reaping each year, with it's back to the sea – we sign in, and it's time to go our separate ways.

"See you later," is about all I can handle, and before I can run off, Father takes my hand and squeezes it, not quite looking me in the eyes. It breaks my heart a little, so I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. "Later," I repeat more firmly, and I make my way into the sectioned off area for the children, and then further in to find my age group. I seek out my oldest friend, Emm. Her coppery hair does nothing to distinguish her from any other curly-haired girl our age, but I find her anyway, and when she sees me she gives me a tight smile and takes my hand. I'm grateful for something to hold on to.

On either side of the stage are the two glass balls that every District uses to draw names for the Games. In any other situation, I'm sure they'd be pretty, but the sight of them makes my pulse race.

In between the balls is a podium, and on either side of that, chairs for our Mayor, Les Sealie, and his wife; the District 4 escort, Imogen Gild; and the Tribute's Mentor, Finnick Odair.

Like the glass balls, Imogen and Finnick are both nice to look at, but the sight of them makes everybody nervous.

Les Sealie comes forward and begins to read the same thing he reads every year at the Reaping – the History of Panem, and the history of the Games, and the reason we're all here today. How we're lucky compared to some of our ancestors, who knew war all the time, and not just once a year.

He finishes, and Imogen comes forward. Too quickly, it's all happening so quickly. That just means it'll be over sooner, I tell myself.

Imogen is the most glamorous person anyone in 4 has seen in person. With golden hair that falls in perfect curls and waves to her waist and sparkling violet eyes – those can't be natural – she looks so out of place, though she isn't quite as altered as many from the Capitol.

"For District 4," she says, her clear sweet voice echoing around the crowded but deathly silent Market Center, "The Hunger Games begin now. May the odds be ever in your favor!" she says, and I expect in that in a perfect world, a cheer would break out. It does not, though we oblige her with tense, polite clapping. "Ladies first."

Imogen makes her way over to the glass ball on the left side of the stage, and Emm's fingers grow hard around mine. We'll both have bruised hands after this, no doubt.

Imogen draws a name out and reads it aloud, followed by the customary silence. I didn't hear it. There's a moan somewhere back in the crowd, and I quickly look around me. Everyone is staring. I didn't hear the name. Who got called? Emm's fingers clutch at me even harder, and Imogen repeats the name.

Annie Cresta.

I'm a tribute. Emm and I stare at each other as tears fill her eyes, and I realize belatedly that the moan belonged to my father.

Imogen calls my name a third time, and I work my hand free of Emm and make my way towards the stage. Towards Imogen and Les and Finnick; towards my own death. Now my father's sobs mingle with the sounds of relief and gossip. My own eyes are wet – when did that happen? – as I take the stage, and Finnick Odair throws an arm around me and pats my shoulder, whether in congratulations or consolation, I don't know or care.

I'm a little bit out of it when they call District 4's male tribute, and it's not until he's onstage do I realize that it's Adem Miller, the son of a man who works alongside my father.

It's not a good day for us Dock kids.

Panem's anthem plays, Adem and I shake hands, and we are immediately whisked off by the Peacekeepers to the City Hall – just on the far South side of the Market Center – and I'm put in a room by myself until my father comes in.

The tears are still streaming down my cheeks, but I feel numb when my father wraps me up in his arms like I'm a little girl again. I realize with a little shock that this means my father will lose everything. Wife, daughter, both taken from him at the Reapings. I snake my arms around his neck. It means the same for me. I'll just be dead a lot sooner.

Father is nearly incoherent, but for the time allotted this farewell, we can only hold onto each other. There's nothing to say that isn't already well known between us. We are all each other has. For a short time, I find peace and comfort in the moment – being cradled in my father's arms like a baby. For just a minute, letting myself slip into the deception that someone can take care of me. Can keep me from harm.

It shatters when the Peacemakers come in. Time's up. Father does not take this well, and when he starts showing signs of a fight, I yell the only thing I know might stop him.

"Daddy!"

I haven't called him daddy since I only came up to his knee. He stops, and the Peacemakers make it clear by the cock of their guns that if Father does anything but walk away peacefully, it's over for him.

"Daddy, stop." I say. He doesn't turn around, but he doesn't move, either. "Daddy. I need you to be good." Why? How can I make him save his life? "I need a reason to come home." I say, my voice breaking.

I know I'm not coming home. But I need to know he's safe and okay. I need that. Father turns and wraps me up tight in his arms one last time.

"Okay, baby," he says, stroking my hair softly. "Whatever you say."

The Peacemakers pull him off me and escort him away. We strain to watch each other, but they put an end to that immediately by locking me in the room alone again.

Moments later, Emm comes in and we cry together, and I make her promise to look after Father. It's only then that she calms down, and I think having something to do for me is the only thing that helps her walk away when our time is up.

Before I know it, Adem and I are being driven to the station, where we'll board a train to the capital. Unlike me, Adem does not have tears soaking the front of his shirt, but his eyes are red and he looks exhausted. I want to talk to him – about what, I have no idea, but I feel like he's the only one in the world I can talk to right now – but I wait, because Finnick and Imogen are in the cab with us, chattering away. Adem stares out the window desperately, but I can't make myself look. The familiar roads and views of the sea – _my_ sea – are too much to watch being taken away from me. Instead, I take a moment to tune in to Finnick and Imogen's conversation.

"…of course, neither of them are particularly interesting, so it will be fascinating to see what you have to do to get them sponsors."

"We'll have to see what the prep teams can do with them. The girl I think we can turn into something, I'm just not sure what yet."

Wonderful.

Fortunately, it isn't long before we reach the station, so my time staring at my hands and pondering the length and shape of my nails isn't too drawn out.

Several Peacekeepers escort the four of us – Imogen, Finnick, Adem, and I – to our personal train. Right away, Finnick takes Adem to his room and Imogen takes me to mine, so I have to wait for another opportunity to pull Adem aside.

My room, it turns out, is nicer by far than my entire home in 4. The bed is big enough for at least four people, but apparently it's all mine. The room comes stocked with my own bathroom with one of those showers for bathing, and a closet full of clothes I am encouraged to wear.

We have several hours until dinner, but before I can decide to find out where Adem's room is, I've passed out on my giant bed. It is the heaviest, blankest sleep I've ever had, as if for hours, I simply stop existing. If I felt anything, it would be relief for feeling nothing at all.

* * *

A/N: Had to stop there. I know nothing cool happened, and I like fast-forwarded through the Reaping. Stick with me, though, I'll make it worth your while.

Please review me! I'd appreciate it

-SB


	2. Chapter 2

The Girl in the Sea

By Seabreeze

Chapter 2

A/N: Huge thanks to my reviewers.

Disclaimer: See First Chapter.

Luckily for me, Adem stops by my room on his way to dinner and wakes me up so I'm not late. He says little as I try to scrub the sleep out of my eyes and thank him profusely, but that isn't odd for him. Neither of us are much for gabbing on when there's no need for it. Still, though, the pull of his eyebrows tells me his relative silence is different than usual.

We make our way into the dining cart to find Finnick and Imogen chatting cheerfully as they wait for us. They give no acknowledgement of us as we walk in, and I glance briefly at Adem before taking a seat across from Imogen. They must have been waiting on us, though, because as soon as we are both seated, the serving staff comes in with trays of food.

"Oh, good!" Finnick says, grinning down at his plate. "I've been _starving_!"

From the look of him, Finnick hasn't gone anywhere near starving since his win five years back. Everyone in District Four is lean, but Finnick has muscle that took good eating to build up. He always had.

I have to pretend to glance out the window at the wilder parts of Panem streaming by to hide my irritation, but when I look down again, my plate is full of food: steamed vegetables so deeply green that they looked artificial, a thick hunk of dark meat drizzled in a pale, creamy looking sauce, long brown grains mixed with vegetables, and some sort of sparkling drink in a goblet.

I sigh. For some reason, the sights and smells before me don't give me the reaction that was intended (and honestly, that I would've expected from myself): hunger, excitement, salivation… I feel more that the mountains of food on my plate I have to climb instead of eat. It makes me tired.

"What is it, darling?" Finnick's voice drawa my eyes up, and he is watching me almost lazily. "Eat your fill now, while you can."

"Annie," I correct automatically. The condescending and mocking tone stings, and in my normal fashion when I'm angry, leaves me basically speechless. I spear some of the vegetables with my fork and took a bite, vowing not to give Finnick Odair the time of day ever again. It was one thing to insult me when I clearly wasn't one for fighting back – it was entirely another to make no effort to learn my name. What did it matter to him? I would be dead by the time he learned it, anyway.

I think I hear him chuckle, but since I refuse to look at him, I wouldn't know. Adem eats mechanically beside me. I wish for nothing more in this moment but for Finnick and Imogen to be called away to more important things so I could just talk to him, but I'm out of luck.

So out of luck, apparently, that Imogen decids to start speaking to us.

"So," she says, sounding casual. "Adem. Annie. Any skills you'd like to share with us? Either of you have any talent with a trident, or a spear?"

Finnick chuckles again, and I swallow what I had been chewing, and glance at Adem again. He takes a knife and fork to his meat, and eats on without acknowledging any of us.

Apparently I am on my own.

"We're good with ropes," I say, hating the soft frailty of my voice. "Knots. Tying and untying. Nets too."

It sounds pathetic, even in the silence of the dining car, where the servers are dressed better than anyone I know at home. I might as well have said, go ahead and stop feeding us. That's how much time we have left.

"Good at swimming," Adem grunts, surprising everyone. "Good stamina. Lung capacity." I stare at him and think of the life we shared separately; how we spent each and every one of our days until today.

"We have good upper body strength," I add. "From helping haul nets out of the water."

Everyone stares at Finnick, who looks pensive as he glances back and forth between the two of us. After a long moment, he shrugs.

"I can't think of anything that would help much, but we never know what will be in the arena anyway."

It's all I can do to keep my gaze down and focus only on my food. He might as well have just signed our death certificates. With our worthless skills and uninteresting personas, we're doomed.

Dinner is quiet after that, and after Adem stands up to leave, I'm quick to finish my water and join him.

"Adem!" I whisper once we are out of the dining car, and Finnick and Imogen are behind the closed door. "I've been wanting to talk to you." Adem slows, but does not look at me.

"So," he says slowly. "Which one of us is going to kill the other?"

It strikes me that Adem had always been a little dark, but even in light of what we're involved in, it's a little macabre for me.

"I don't plan on killing anyone." I tell him, a little defiantly, though my voice shakes.

"Then you're dead." He replied, as if this were simply the only possible outcome. Harsh, but unfortunately also true. "What are the odds, huh? No careers from District Four this year."

Most of the other districts seem to be under the impression that District Four is one that has a lot of Career Tributes – kids that train for the Games. Kids that want to play them.

It's not untrue. Finnick O'dair himself was a Career – how else could a 14-year-old boy win the games, outside of sheer luck?

We do have plenty of those kinds of kids around District Four. For every one, though, there are three of us who'd rather let them take our places.

You'd think that'd be an easy fix – I don't want to go, but a Career girl does, so she volunteers and takes my place. Everyone's happy.

Unfortunately, volunteering doesn't work that way in District Four. Each district has its own volunteering rules and procedures, and the more careers a district has, the more complex the process is.

Ours is not that complicated. Every family is given a rating from one to four that places them on an ascending scale of "income", but really it's a measure of how comfortable we live Finnick O'dair is a well known five. All the careers are. They have plenty to eat, and dress nicely, and, yes, train for the games. From there down, the lifestyle quality decreases – fours eat well, and can afford medicine easily. Not many of them train for the games, but one will occasionally volunteer. This scale goes down to ones, who struggle to keep food on the table. Sometimes they don't.

My father and I are a two family, though if the scale were more specific, we'd probably be a two and a half.

The scale was created for two reasons – one, to clarify the importance of the different jobs people do, and two – the Hunger Games.

The rule in District Four is that volunteers are allowed – one per tribute, per reaping – but only within our number groups. In my case, Emm, who like Adem and I, is a two, could've volunteered and taken my place, but Schell, a five girl who would actually want to take my place, cannot.

We suspect this a way of keeping the games interesting – Districts 1 and 2 always have careers, which is predictable. Boring. 4 might be considered a "career" district, but we don't always send careers.

I shrug.

"Not statistically all that surprising," I say. "Even with all the extra tessarae they take."

"Extra _unnecessary_ tesserae," Adem corrects. I wouldn't argue, even if I wanted to. The corridors and cars pass us by, scenery flashing in the wide windows.

"Look, I just – " I stop, forgetting that I have no idea what I'm going to say.

"You just want me to watch your back out there?" he guesses, a little darkly.

"I… that's not quite it." We're quiet for a minute as we reach the door to his room, and we pause. "It's just that… I'm going to die." I say, and look him straight in the eye. "And probably you, too. I don't want to be alone."

"Isn't it a little early for alliances?" He looks surprised, but open to the idea. "Why not? I just want you to promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I ask, relieved and apprehensive at the same time.

His eyes seem to focus more intently, darkening as they hold my own.

"I want you to promise to kill me quickly if it comes down to it."

I gape. "…what?"

"If we're together, and the others catch me, and are going to torture or kill me in a horrible way… you do it. Make it quick."

I let the words sink in. Adem is just as resigned to his upcoming death as I am, but he has put much more thought into it. He extends a hand, looking at me as if he thinks I will refuse him.

I surprise us both by shaking his hand firmly.

"Same for me." I say, and I'm pretty sure I've earned his respect, if not his trust.

"It's a deal then." He says, letting go of my hand. "Goodnight."

Without another word, he is in his room, and I am alone and slightly stunned by the deal I have just made. I stand there for a moment, lost in thought, before heading down the hallway to my own room.

Just before I reach the door, someone calls out to me.

"Hey! Kid!"

I turn to see Finnick jogging after me, and I press my lips together.

"Annie," I correct, watching him levelly.

"Whatever," he says. "I couldn't help but notice you chatting with the other tribute – "

" – Adem –"

" – outside his room."

I raise my eyebrows, which is bold for me. As usual around Finnick, my blood is odd temperatures in my veins out of fury, and I hope my face isn't burning red.

"Well, just be careful who you trust around here. You think you see him around town, you know him. Next thing you know, though, he's stabbed you in the back. Literally."

He seems amused by his little joke, and I shake my head in disgust.

"Whatever," I mimic, and go into my room, not knowing or caring how he reacted to my rudeness. When the door closes and I am free of him, my blood is running hot and cold and I feel my cheeks – hot. Finnick absolutely sickens me. To him, we are Whatever and the Other Tribute.

I lock my door and glare at it, daring anyone to bother me tonight. I've had enough of tributes and capitol servants and Imogen, and the only thing I want is to cry myself to sleep.

I shower, pull on the softest pajamas I can find in my wardrobe (how ridiculous – now that my days are numbered, I have more clothes than I could ever use) and curl up in my enormous bed, wishing desperately for my rickety old twin bed in our drafty house where I can always smell the sea and hear its waves crashing the rocks below.

I cry myself hoarse thinking of father, and what he will do once I am gone. I cry for wanting him with me, and because I will never see him again.

As it always does when I cry, my mind eventually goes to my mother, and I cry for her.

At the end of the day, though, I will be like her, and it is father who will be all alone, like I am now. It is not a comforting thought, but I fall asleep to it anyway.

A/N: I'm either a jerk or a slow writer or have writers' block. Or any combination of the three. Apologies.


	3. Chapter 3

The Girl in the Sea

By Seabreeze

Chapter 3

A/N: Huge thanks to my reviewers.

Disclaimer: See First Chapter.

* * *

I awake feeling rested, and rung out. I could'nt conjure up another tear if I wanted to, which is good, considering the dread already building up in the pit of my stomach. Couldn't they just execute me and get it over with? Why play games, why dress us up and make us play nice with the other kids before we killed each other?

Today Adem and I meet with our style teams, who will make us more presentable. First, though, breakfast with Finnick Odair and Imogen. I curl up under the luxurious blankets on my bed, thinking that it can't be the end of the world if I skip breakfast. I'm hardly hungry, anyway.

I've almost gone back to sleep when there is a knock at my door. I groan softly, but drag myself up and over to the door. Adem stands in the hallway, dressed and ready to go. He raises an eyebrow at me, taking note of my pajamas and (probably) very messy hair.

"I'm not hungry," I say, and feeling suddenly foolish. Adem glares at me.

"We made a deal. We're in this together."

It is all he needs to say. Little else could get me out of bed on this morning but the idea that I am not alone, that someone else is relying on me. I sigh.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Adem. Give me a minute." I close the door in his face and rush to get ready, so I don't keep him waiting. I throw on a knee-length belted dress, wash my face, and pull my hair back into a bun. Not my best look, but better than a couple minutes ago.

When I come out, Adem is silent, but we walk to breakfast together. We don't get away with our lateness, though. Imogen sniffs when we walk in.

"Not a great start, tributes. Late on your very first day."

"It's my fault," I say, keeping my head down as we take our seats across from our mentors. "I overslept, and Adem came to make sure I ate."

"How sweet," Imogen says, and it's hard to tell if she's serious or not. Finnick swallows a huge mouthful of eggs and shakes his knife at Adem.

"It's every man for himself out there, you know. Might as well start getting used to that now."

I don't need to look at Adem to know that he is staring at Finnick with the exact same disgust and disbelief as I am. Finnick looks from Adem to me and back again, and just shrugs before going back to his breakfast.

"Just telling it like it is."

"Well, it's good he _did_ make sure she came, because we need to go over your schedules for today." Imogen adds smartly. Adem snorts, and she ignores him. "You'll both be meeting with your stylists today, and they'll begin creating your new looks. Finnick and I will be overseeing this. Pretty exciting day for you two."

Not really, considering the days to follow. Neither Adem or I reply, and Imogen is clearly offended. Finnick gives her a 'what can you do?' sort of look, and breakfast is finished in relative silence.

Whatever I expect when Imogen tells us the styling teams will be "creating our new looks", it is every bit of wrong. It is more accurate that they are scrubbing me down and teaching me new rules of personal hygiene.

After breakfast, she leads me to a car on the train I've never been to, and introduces me to my styling team. Three women and a man, all decked in black, all altered almost beyond recognition as human. The smallest woman, who is a few inches shorter than me, has hair that looks like fire. It starts red at her roots and goes through orange, yellow, and white to the tips of her hair, which are a glowing blue. It looks like her head is on fire, particularly when the light shines on it. She tells me her name is Flame, and it's hard not to smile at that. Her eyes are gold, but her smile back is playful.

The next woman, who has curves that would make any woman jealous, has half her head shaved, with the other half falling long and straight to her waist. Her neck is entirely encrusted with jewels in all shades of blue, embedded in the skin. They span from her collarbone to her jaw line, and it is really quite beautiful. Her name is Sìn.

The man, Dru, is tall and thin and seemingly without angles. He reminds me of a willow; everything rounded and drooping, even his eyes and his mouth. His hair is gathered in a magnificent white tail at the back of his head, curling to his shoulders. His eyebrows match his hair, and his eyelids are covered in smeared-looking black makeup.

Kismet is the last, and the most striking. Her skin is naturally very dark, but something has been done to it to make it seem, at times, almost blue. Her head is shaved and her magenta eyes shine out of her face like beacons. She does not smile or talk, and for some reason, I instantly trust her.

Flame claps her hands together.

"Alright!" she says. "Clothes off, Miss Annie!"

I stare at her. "What? I – "

"Don't be shy. How're we to do anything with your lovely self if you keep it all covered up?" She claps her hands together again, but I can only stare back at her. I glance at Dru and feel blood rush my cheeks.

"Uh…"

"Oh please, honey, he's not interested in _that_. And it's not like you can hold a candle to Sìn, anyway." I look at Sìn, who is smirking at me. Well, at least it's true.

"If I were interested in girls, I'd certainly pick someone more interesting looking than _you_," Dru adds.

Oh. _OH_. I blush again, but hesitate.

"Do you want us to do it for you?" Sìn asks.

"No!" I practically shout as her hands reach for my belt. "No." Trembling, I start undoing my belt. Kismet holds out a hand, and I give it to her. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, stripping down in front of four totally bizarre looking strangers. I hand Kismet my dress and fold my hands.

"Remove _all_ of it," Dru says boredly.

"It's okay, honey," Says Flame, giving me a big smile. "We do this all the time. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."

But it is Kismet's nod that convinces me, and I slowly remove my breast band (while still trying to conceal my breasts) and my panties. I shake almost violently before them.

"Poor little thing!" Flame exclaims. "We couldn't knock the shy out of this one if we wanted to." They stand in a box with me in the center, looking me over. Kismet touches my hair, and Dru finally draws a breath.

"Alright, ladies." He says. "Sìn and I will get her cleaned up. Flame, start preparing the exfoliating agents – I want brightening. Kismet, I want you to wash her hair while we're at it. Please use the shine-enhancing formula."

Kismet only stares at him, her face unchanging. Dru's demeanor alters slightly.

"What, you think maybe volume?" he asks. Kismet raises an eyebrow. "And softness, of course. Naturally."

Kismet turns away, and Dru turns to me, his mouth pinched once again.

* * *

By the time I feel cleaner and more fragrant than I ever have in my life, only Sìn and Kismet remain with me – I don't know when or why Flame and Dru left, but I haven't seen them in hours. I've been soaking in a thick, creamy substance that smells like sweet milk for at least half an hour when I hear the door to the beauty car of the train slide open, and hushed words are exchanged. After a pause, the door slides shut, and it sounds like I am alone.

"Hello?" I call, hating the echo of my voice in the cold hallways.

Heavy footsteps head my way.

"I don't like my subjects to talk."

The voice is stern and clipped, and I freeze, hands on the sides of the tub. The man appears in the doorway, and my dread does not lessen. He is in his mid-to-late thirties, wearing boots and a leather jacket.

"Get out." He says.

"Can I have a—"

"No," His eyes are hard. "Stand up."

This command is ten times harder the second time around, but I don't dare argue. Making sure to cover my chest and crotch, I stand slowly and step out of the tub. I've never, ever in my life feft more vulnerable. The man circles me slowly, surveying my clean, wet, soapy skin from all angles.

"Who are you?" I ask, when the silence gets to be too much. The man is behind me.

"I'm your head stylist," He says. He is still behind me, and I feel my hamstring twitch.

"Oh." I say. My stylist circles back front, and crosses his arms.

"I need to see your breasts." He says. I drop my arm, trembling noticeably. This is not like Dru and Flame and Sìn and Kismet looking at my nudity. It is completely different, and many times worse. Something is lodged in my throat, and after a minute, I decide my head stylist has seen all that can be seen about my breasts. I fold my arms over them quickly, feeling mildly relieved. I hear my stylist chuckle, and for the first time, he is looking me in the eye.

"You belong to the Capitol now," He says, grinning despite the hardness in his eyes. "Did you know that?"

Whatever was in my throat drops heavily into my belly. I take a step back, reaching out for the robe I know rests on the dressing table beside the tub. The man advances.

"Answer me. Did you know that?"

"I—no—" I stumble slightly, bumping my calves on the edge of the tub. The man reaches out and grabs the arm covering my chest and pulls it away, and I gasp. "No—!"

"This is what that means, little flower," He says, and I can finally see that the look in his eyes is hungry and crazed. I immediately yank my arm, but his grip is too strong and he hauls me to himself. "There now," He says, wrapping his other arm tightly around my waist. "Isn't this better?"

"No." I say. I feel cold and shaky, but my voice is firm and much louder than my normal speaking tone. I begin to struggle against him. He laughs and holds me tighter. "No!" I fight against his hold with everything I have. "Let me go!" I shriek, feeling hysterical.

_Smack._

He lets my wrist go for just long enough to slap me, hard, across the face. The blow knocks my breath out, and I see bright stars twinkle in the sudden darkness before me.

I've never been hit before. I've seen it often enough, but I suppose father was never the striking type. Something about the reality of it happening shocks and enrages me, and before I know what I'm doing, I knee him, _hard_, between the legs.

There is a shrill, desperate noise, and as my vision lightens back to reality, I see my assailant crouched over on the floor.

It takes me a minute to realize the keening noise is me. I scramble for the robe, reaching over the stylist, and race for the door. Tears and wild emotion are blurring my vision, so I don't see Finnick Odair coming in the same door. He catches me and I scream.

"Annie!" He bends down so that we are eye to eye, and something in his serious turquoise eyes calms me. Tears continue to stream down my cheeks and I can't seem to catch my breath, but I feel secure.

No sooner have I stopped screaming, Finnick has left me in the doorway and yanks my stylist from the floor.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't throw you off this train right now, Bard," He snarls. I turn in the doorway and rest my forehead against the doorframe, not wanting to see the head stylist, Bard, anymore.

"What is your problem!" Bard asks in a decidedly choked-sounding voice. _Good_, I think. I may be dead in a week, but at least I know I can do some damage when it counts. Bard makes a wheezing sound before continuing. "I was just—"

"I don't really care," Finnick tells him, sounding cold. "You're fired. Start packing, and so help me if I find you even in the same car as this girl."

There is some shuffling and grunting, and one of them jostles me on the way out of the doorway. I cling tighter to the doorframe. I hear the door to the next open, and shut again. The wheezing noise is gone, and so must be Bard. I hear Finnick walk back towards me, but stop short of the doorway. He is giving me my space, for which I am grateful.

Neither of us say anything for long minutes, but he does not leave.

"Who's going to be my head stylist now?" I ask finally, my voice coming out both louder and scratchier than I expect.

"I will."

I laugh hoarsely. "What do you know about makeup and fashion?"

"Enough. I know what looks good, and your team is more than competent enough to help me."

I busy myself with wiping my face and tying my robe more tightly against my body. My hands still tremble.

"You still have soap in your hair." Finnick says. My hands fly up to my head – he's right. "Rinse off. I'll wait outside. When you're done, I'll take you back to your room."

I nod, and wait until Finnick is gone and the door is closed to disrobe and rinse my body and hair. I mean to do this quickly, but end up scrubbing my skin raw with one of the rougher sponges left behind. I can't seem to help myself.

I finally finish scrubbing, make sure my hair is soap-free, dry off, and put on the robe.

Finnick is waiting for me on the other side of the door. He says nothing about how long I took, and we walk together in silence through the cars until we reach my room.

"That won't happen again." Finnick promises, and turns to leave.

"Why did you stop it?" I ask. The question bubbled forth without my knowing, but once it's out, I can't help but want to know the answer. Finnick freezes.

"What do you mean?" He demands, sounding incensed. He can't see me, but I shrug.

"I'm a walking corpse." I say. "You won't even learn my name. I'll be dead within a week. I just… it shouldn't matter what happens to me. Not now."

"You're not dead yet." Finnick says. "Lock your door tonight."

* * *

The sea comes to me that night. I have never been away from it – never slept, save for last night, without hearing the waves crashing against the rocks below, and never awoken without the sound of gulls cawing over the beach. I am not surprised it calls to me, because I know that I am calling to it. Its memory washes over me like waves: the smell of salt and brine, the rhythmic caress of the tide. I climb the sharp, craggy rocks to their highest point and stand over the sea. The wind tugs on me harsh and insistent. It is honest and chill, and rubs my cheeks pink. This is home. Whether I live in the Games or die, I know I will come back here.

I dive off the rock into the icy slate water of sleep below me.

* * *

A/N: I feel like I am constantly apologizing for being a slow updater. It is because I am. Apologies.

Thank you for your reviews!


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